Will You Still Be Here?
by XxZuiliu
Summary: On the shores of the ruins of a village that had once been known as Uzushiogakure, there is a girl with hair the color of a blood-red sunset. [SI OC]


. . .

* * *

She carries a hairpin to her breast, a pretty bauble embedded with marbled stone and cast in steel. There are flickers of rose-red patterns crisscrossing over ruby-pink ripples that dance across the deep vermillion surface of the frivolous ornament, wisps of butterfly scales chasing dragon tails over phoenix wings.

(Or so she says.)

Her hands are rough, calloused. They are the hands of a simple peasant who spends her days toiling in the fields, day after night after day after night.

Rinse and repeat.

She doesn't dare wear the pretty little trinket outside in the daylight within the locks of her raven-black hair. _Thieves and robbers and bandits; mark my words._ Instead, she keeps the cold bauble carefully tucked inside the coarse fabric of her burlap clothes, pressed against her skin, directly over her heart–

And some days, the fancy ornament doesn't feel so cold anymore, as it usually does. Stone and steel. She laughs and fancies it a dragon's egg, fire curling inside so as to send heat seeping through stone, licking at our fingertips when she presses my hand to it with her own.

_A dragon's egg is only warmed by love, m'dear._

She carries the little flower-red hairpin with her wherever she goes. It's a gift, from lover to beloved –for all the ephemeral season of a summer monsoon, before her love had disappeared; and with him, his hundreds upon thousands of empty promises of a better life and a better future.

…

That's a good place as any to start, I suppose. There's no real beginning or end to anything here, as I'm sure you'll soon find. Maybe there will be, someday. Someday, maybe, but that day is not today.

Mother carries with her a hairpin brimming with hopes and dreams. She carries it close to her heart because she has nothing left.

(Her own mother had died several winters ago, during a particularly bone-chilling year when months of heavy snow buried the village in what seemed to be everlasting darkness. Her father had survived, but barely just. These days, he simply sits in the small hut across an ever-present fire smoldering slowly, talking to ghosts of the long-dead with a glitter of madness and–)

In hindsight, perhaps the time she spent with that vanished man –_outsider, foreigner; shame on that wretch and on her family–_ was what saved her. A young man who became her pillar of strength for the summer when everything became so very hopelessly dark, who exchanged whispers of love with her, who promised to return for her once he had finished what he had set out to do.

(It's no surprise, really, when he does not. Come. Back. Why would she ever think otherwise?)

Mother carries the rose-red hairpin with her because it is the only memento she has of him. _Only in his homeland will you ever find another dragon egg trapping the dawn in its fragile embrace._ It is her motivation for going through the motions of living through each day.

More than the hairpin she carries at her breast, she carries hope for the future in her heart.

Looking back on it all, I can't help but wonder.

She is only a peasant.

Unimportant.

Frail.

Weak.

…

… How is it, then, that she can still carry such unbridled hope for a brighter future when we live in such a bleak, bleak world?

* * *

He carries a sword.

To be fair, he is not the only one. He is a ninja. Shinobi. He fights and kills and kills and fights, and it's all so utterly, utterly meaningless.

(Granted, he does not seem to think so. And again, he is not the only one. But how would any of them know to think any differently than what they are raised to believe?)

He clutches at the sword like it's a lifeline, and sometimes, it truly is. Sometimes, it's only that extra edge of steel separating you from certain death as you desperately cling to life while blood roars in your ears; and sometimes, _truly–_

It does not matter.

_It does not matter._

If you carry a sword, it says absolutely nothing about you on the battlefield. After all…

It.

Just.

Means.

That.

You.

Are.

Ready.

To.

Die.

…

* * *

(… Or not. Who knows? Certainly not any of the little boys who were handed a sword by the older shinobi with a disarming smile.)

* * *

Other than the hairpin to her heart, Mother also carries a song on her tongue.

I do not remember the words. The tone, yes, but only vaguely. What words pass through her lips I do not know, but the familiar tune is something I will forever remember until the day I die.

(Again.)

Not because of a catchy string of notes. Oh good heavens, _no._ Not because I associate that particular melody with the vague, fuzzy image of maternal love, either.

I remember it clearly because Mother was singing it when the village was set a-flame by a monstrous behemoth of a dragon made of flames.

It's a tune that plays across the forefront of my mind quite often.

After all.

It's a tune that my mind associates with death.

…

…

…

… _And when the world falls down around me, will you still be here?_

* * *

One day, people will look upon our time and see madness.

They will see death and senseless bloodshed. They will weep from stories of pyrrhic victories and empty tragedies. They will rebuke us for killing without batting an eye, for easily shedding our humanity without a second thought for something as trivial as _reputation._

They will revile us for the underhanded schemes we execute to achieve our goals. They will detest us for the innocent casualties we have no qualms about slaughtering in our way. They will hate us for who we are, and what we do.

Or.

They will look back and see glory.

They will look upon this as a golden age where strength means _everything,_ and be proud of the roots they have come from –be proud of the strength they have inherited from their ancestors– and they will honor and respect and revere us. For holding our ground with a will of fire and unbending steel.

They will love us.

…

(I… am unsure as to how I wish our history to be remembered. Do I wish to be a monster or a hero? Do I wish to show the jaded truth or a beautiful illusion?

Either way, we will be remembered as legends.

It's a scary thought.)

* * *

A whisper on the breeze.

A mere whisper on the breeze, and it is the catalyst that changes everything.

* * *

My earliest memories in this world are of the rose-red hairpin that Mother carries with her. Strange, isn't it? I don't even remember the face of the woman who raised me for the first few years of my life, but I somehow I still recall the hairpin she used to try and amuse me with –that, and the soft little song she had often sang.

(A song of death.)

What I do remember in clear, vivid detail is this: amber eyes, russet hair, kind smile. Uzumaki Entaka comes back for the peasant woman he had fallen in love with, only to find a village burning to the ground.

… I do not know how I survived that tragedy, only that I did.

…

Sometimes, that is all that matters.

* * *

_Run,_ they whisper. _Run. Leap through the air; twist and dance._

The whirlpool catches the sunset in its watery embrace, burning gold and glowing crimson, streaked with orange and pink and a tiny hint of lilac when the wind stirs over the waves. A breeze. A playful wisp of wind, mixed within the currents of the salty air.

_We are children who carry the spirit of the wind and waves._

Rose-pebbles line the shores, flickering embers that glow brightly under the warm light of sun-falling-into-water. Swirls of rainbow colors twist under its surface, like tongues and tendrils of wild dragon-flame. Sometimes, it feels almost as if the stars themselves would fall up into the heavens, if one cracked the edge of the fire-stone and spilled out those flames burning inside; falling upwards and coalescing into a starry staircase that led deep into the depths of the sunset sky.

We stand together on the shores at dusk and at dawn.

I used to be one of them. One of the children who would skip fire-pebbles over the churning whirlpool waves, where the sun dipped down to meet the water line and set the sea ablaze with dancing phoenix song and dragon flame. One of the children who would run fleet-footed over the bright shores and chase the glittering stars racing each other as they ascended into the sky.

In a way, I am still one of them. We all are.

_Together we are both the eye of the hurricane storm, and the soul of the tempest squall._

Uzushiogakure.

_Let the gentle tides wash our children ashore._

* * *

Father carries a brush with him, tucked behind his ear and mixed into the crimson-red locks of his hair. He is but one of the many in the Uzumaki Clan who works with seals, who paints with ink and blood and spirit of wind.

For as long as I can remember, he has always carried the brush with him. Even now, I can still recall the feeling of his calloused hands curling over my own and guiding me into drawing long, sweeping strokes on paper and on stone. Breath of the Eastern Wind, Water God of High Tides, Thunder Dragon on the Mountaintop.

I cannot forget.

Father's hands are warm.

I am not the only child who dashes down the rose-pebble streets, ink-splattered and laughing as we run, run, run. Faster and faster and faster still, until we are all but one with the wind itself as we fly forward on invisible wings, pulled along by invisible strings. I do not know. I do not think I had ever quite known just where we were running to during those blood-summer days. Neither had the other fire-haired children, for that matter.

We laugh with the wind and dance with the breeze and sway to the beat of the oncoming tides.

We laugh as we skip.

Play.

Run.

We laugh as we grasp feather-light brushes with our fingers just like our forefathers have, and we laugh as we trail ink over paper, over sand, over stone.

We laugh as we stand in blood.

We are children.

We are children who carry the spirit of the wind and waves.

I do not know how others think of us, and I do not _care._ I have never cared, nor will I start now. Who will understand? They do not live upon rose-stones and whirlpool-waves, in a land that captures the sunset and sunrise each day. They do not live to the phoenix song and dragon blood that roars in our veins. They do not have the butterfly touch in their fingertips when they hold their brushes and tear a fine red mist into the air.

They do not know.

We.

Are.

U-zu-shi-o-ga-ku-re.

They know the name, but they do not know what it _means._ Uzushiogakure is more than scarlet hair and blood-ink and children brought in on the ocean tide. More than Uzumaki.

They do not know us as well as they think, and that is their failing.

Father carries a brush with him, tucked behind his ear and mixing into the crimson-red locks of his hair. As do I. As do all of us, even Mito-hime far out in the Senju village.

Pardon me.

Ko-no-ha-ga-ku-re.

_(The Village Hidden in the Leaves. The village that will see the rise and fall of legends, the village that will breed madness and despair and a tiny, thin ray of hope. I wonder… does Mito-hime see any of this when she looks at her beloved village?)_

* * *

We are a generation born in blood and bred in war, and it makes us all the stronger for it.

(Maybe.)

I remember it well. Not with crystal-clarity, but well enough. Well enough. Enough. I remember enough to swing a sword and throw knives, to beckon wind and bend water to my call. Just like the others.

I do not care for battle. But I fight and kill all the same, because we are kin, because I would rather it be their blood painting the rose-pebbles than our own.

… Even if I think it's meaningless.

But meaningless or meaningful, it does not change the fact that we are a generation born in blood and bred in war. We learn to fight. To kill. And above all, we learn to love, to _live_, and sometimes I think this is the only thing that keeps me sane in a land of ruins and of dust.

Some days, I sit down on the rubble in front of an ebbing tide, and wonder how it is that these waves had once captured the sunset in its watery embrace.

Nowadays, it only reflects the blood of its children

There is the scent of death in the air.

I.

Wonder.

If.

It.

Will.

Ever.

Disappear?

…

* * *

"_Hiruzen?"_

_The Kage sitting at the oaken desk raised his head at the sound of his teammate's voice. "Homura? Is that you?"_

_The taller man swept in through the doorway, and Sarutobi Hiruzen felt the oncoming stirrings of another headache when he saw the stack of papers that the other man carried in his arms._

"_Thank you for bringing them over, Homura. Please leave them… wherever you find room." Hiruzen smiled blandly, forcibly suppressing the twitch in his brow when Homura not-so-subtly snickered at him. Well. Someone seemed like he could use a few extra reports from the logistics department this afternoon._

"_As you wish, Hokage-sama." The teasing note in his teammate's voice was positively schoolboy-gleeful. Hiruzen reaffirmed his decision to murder the other man with paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork._

"_Are we really going through this again? Really?" Koharu rolled her eyes as she strode in, slamming down another heap of papers in the corner, and Hiruzen valiantly resisted the urge to cry. "This is the… what, three hundredth-something time that you two are snubbing each other with paperwork?"_

"_Pot, meet kettle." Homura grumbled, and received a slap upside the head for his efforts. Good ol' Koharu. Now, if only she would stop adding to his paperwork pile as well…_

"_Hiruzen," the kunoichi fixed her attention onto her Kage. "How is Mito-sama doing these days?"_

_Uzumaki Mito-sama._

"… _As well as can be expected, I suppose." Hiruzen replied neutrally. Koharu frowned, and Homura's face darkened. "She and Kushina-chan are still in the process of pulling each other through their grief of losing Uzushio."_

_Homura shook his head, scowling._

"_Do we have any leads on who attacked Uzushio?"_

"_Not yet."_

"_Unacceptable. Who in the world thinks they can get away with so brazenly destroying Konoha's greatest ally?"_

"_To be fair," Koharu interrupted, a steely glint in her eyes. "I doubt they were able to get away without suffering any casualties."_

"… _Iwa, do you think?" Homura briefly glanced at his female teammate. "They've been getting pretty brazen with testing our borders lately."_

"_To destroy Uzushio would require no small force," Hiruzen pointed out. "Unless Iwa has developed a method to sneak an army past our borders, it is rather unlikely that they are the direct culprits responsible for this travesty."_

"_Investigations into this aside, though…" Koharu hesitated. "Hiruzen, do you know if… if there are any survivors?"_

"_Doubtless there are survivors from Uzushio. But finding them will be… difficult. I presume that most, if not all, will be in hiding at this point. They would not want to risk…"_

"_We could offer protection."_

"_So openly? The Uzumaki are not the only clan residing within the walls of Uzushio. We would run the risk of accepting potential spies into Konoha."_

"_That does not mean we should sit back and do nothing. The message for help from Uzushio came too late for us to mobilize our forces and come to their aid –but that does not mean we are too late to do anything for the survivors. Konoha does not abandon her allies in a time of need."_

* * *

… And when the world falls down around me, will you still be here?

* * *

.

. . .

.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Similar to _Senkei,_ this is also set early on before the Naruto-canon series timeline. A little later along in the timeline than _Senkei,_ though, since obviously most of the ninja villages have already been established at this point. This story is set after the First Shinobi War and before the Second Shinobi War. For now. xD

(In my version of events, Uzushio is destroyed some years after the First War. Canon never actually specified when Uzushio fell nor who did the felling, right? If it did, well… just consider this AU. :3)

I've been browsing through some Naruto fanfics again after the manga ended, and… well. It occurred to me that there seemed to be a lack of Uzu-related stories, so I decided heck, why not? ;3 This story features an Uzumaki OC who survived the fall of Uzushio, and _yes,_ before I get pelted with questions about it_ –_I am well aware that I didn't leave the name of the narrating OC anywhere in here. It's done on purpose. :D

Not sure if I'm going to tie in any _Senkei_ plot-stuff to this. Maybe? I mean, the _Senkei_ rewrite will be up sometime in February next year at the _earliest_, so I might just give up on it before I even start, haha. Plus, I'm also thinking of removing _Senkei_ from entirely, since the writing just makes me want to cringe when I look at it now. Although, maybe that's a good thing, since it's a sign of improvement…? = w=

I haven't been writing much Naruto stuff recently since I've been playing around in the KHR fandom. Future updates for _Will You Still Be Here? _is largely going to depend on how well people seem to like it, since I still want to prioritize working on _Onwards Till Dawn _(which is a KHR story I'm working on with a friend of mine :3).

… Maybe I should just leave this story here like it is, since, well, y'know. I can be a lazy, lazy author and all that. xD

-XxZuiliu


End file.
